


like all delicate things

by humanveil



Series: The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 19:53:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12589356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: When Sirius leaves, Regulus seeks comfort from the only person he thinks will offer it.





	like all delicate things

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Amrit Brar's quote: _“Your teeth are only porcelain, your ribcage simply glass. Like all delicate things, they can know no permanence.”_

Regulus’ ears fill with the sound of gravel crunching beneath boots, with the quiet grunts of his Father as they trudge their way down Malfoy Manor’s drive. He doesn’t often accompany Orion on his visits—cares not for his business with Lucius and Abraxas—but he’d asked to come today.

Lucius meets them at the gates, the sound of chains clinking against metal replacing their footsteps. Regulus watches as Orion takes his hand, the handshake firm and formal, listens as they greet each other—the both of them using fake, aloof voices. He trails after them as they walk, eyes drawn to the creatures milling about, to the vibrantly white flash of a peacock.

They reach the home eventually, Lucius pushing the doors open and allowing them to step through. Malfoy Manor’s drawing room is large, expensive—far nicer than the rooms of Grimmauld Place. Regulus wonders if his father hates them for it.

“She’s in the garden,” Lucius tells him, pointing to what corridor he should walk through, and Regulus nods, murmurs his thanks before excusing himself.

He’s surprised he doesn’t get lost. He’s never walked the Manor alone, and the twists and turns of the halls are far more confusing than they ought to be. He wonders, briefly, how long it took Narcissa to learn the format.

He makes it to the garden eventually, his eyes scanning the distance, looking for a familiar figure within the span of the property. He catches sight of pale blonde hair to the left of him, and he walks toward it—finds Narcissa sitting on the end of a bench, her eyes trained on a sea of moth-like creatures, on their pale blue glow and the way they hoard the roses. She looks up at the sound of his steps, her expression one of muted understanding when she sees him.

“I was wondering when you’d come,” she murmurs. She nods toward the bench, and Regulus takes his seat, gaze drifting to watch the roses. “Tell me, then,” Narcissa says when he doesn’t speak. “What happened?”

“He left.”

No need to clarify who _he_ is. No need to say anything more than that. Narcissa knows what he’s talking about—he’d heard his mother record the howler.

“Did he say anything?”

“No,” Regulus tells her. No, and he thinks that that is why it hurts so much, thinks that maybe if Sirius had bothered to say goodbye he wouldn’t feel like this—wouldn’t feel so hollow, so betrayed. So _forgotten_. “He just... left.”

There is a lump in his throat, a burn to his eyes. Narcissa doesn’t say what everyone else would—doesn’t remind him that they knew it would happen, doesn’t say he should be happy to have lost his blood traitor of a brother, doesn’t say he should get over it already. She knows better—knows not to repeat Bellatrix’s mistake, not to treat Regulus the way Bellatrix had her when Andromeda had left.

She reaches for his hand, her cold fingers circling his and squeezing. Narcissa doesn’t say anything more, and Regulus is grateful for it. It was this quietness that had drawn Regulus to her when he was little, her endlessly icy state that he’d found intriguing—so different to Sirius’ constant energy, to his disruptive nature.

He almost misses that energy, now.

“He—” he cuts off with a stifled choke, with a forceful cough, something to clear his throat. Breathing deeply, he squeezes Narcissa’s hand back—is sure he’s almost hurting her. “Mother said he went to the Potters,” he says, once he trusts himself to speak. “Says he said he hates us all—that he’ll be happy to get away from us.”

And that had hurt, too. To be categorised with the rest of them, to be equally hated. Regulus knows his relationship with Sirius has always been a rocky one, but he hadn’t thought it was that bad—had liked to believe Sirius had at least some affection for him.

Evidently, he’d been wrong.

“He always was rather dramatic,” Narcissa says, her voice little more than a murmur. Regulus snorts, his body moving closer to hers, his head falling to rest on her shoulder.

“A family trait,” he murmurs, and Narcissa laughs—a breathy huff of air, so quiet Regulus can barely hear it.

The silence stretches for a moment, the whistle of the wind and the sway of trees the only sound. Regulus stares, unblinking; his gaze unfocused, his mind somewhere else.

“You will be fine,” Narcissa murmurs some time later. Her lips brush over the top of his head, grazing the strands of short, black hair. It’s comforting—comforting the way Narcissa always has been. “I promise you.”

He doesn’t respond, but he repeats the words in his head, reminds himself of their truth as he and Narcissa sit there, huddled together under the summer sun, the both of them lost in past matters—in the ugly reality of family.

_He will be fine._

Regulus dares to believe it. After all, if there is anyone he ought to trust on the matter, it is Narcissa.


End file.
